Bread, Wine, Roses

Monday, December 2, 2013

I really need a creative outlet right now. Throughout college, as an English major, I found myself writing at least an essay a week. I loved writing essays: typing out perfect sentences, choosing just the right word, metaphor, course of repetition, punctuation. I loved the process of thinking about a work of literature, analyzing it, and then formulating a beautifully written, cohesive statement that brought my thoughts together in a way that would not only honor the canonical piece, but would also, in its own right, be in and of itself a work of art. Yes, I did just say that. I was (am?) so egotistical, that I was willing to believe that any one of my dinky papers was a true work of art.

Now, the closest I get to writing is sitting down in front of a computer after a tough physics lab, cranking out some crazy graphs in Excel, and click-clacking out a couple sentences about potential sources of error. Needless to say, I have not been able to convince myself that my lab reports are works of art, nor fountains of creative expression.

I've recently gotten to know someone who actively seeks out creative opportunities. I admire this quality. Why can't I do the same? Why do I feel so stifled? He's very into verbal storytelling, and I have come to see that it's something unique and apart from written storytelling. Could I be any good at that, when I feel my talent is so rooted in written word? I think I have, in effect, truly limited myself. If I am to be the type of artist I want to be, I need to feel free to express myself. My grandmother, an amazing visual artist, has always told me there are no mistakes in art. I love this idea. I need to embrace it.